Even though I really haven't had a lot of time to write in this thing - not to mention I admittedly am not the most dedicated blogger - yesterday is definitely worth writing about.
Around mid-day a couple of my fellow classmates and I decided to go check out the city of Salt, which is located about 20-30 minutes west of Amman. It is known to be an ancient city of trade between Jerusalem, Amman and Nablus. The "formal" bus system in Amman consists of smaller mini-busses that fit around 25 people. On the sides and fronts of each bus is written the respective routes (in Arabic of course). To get on the bus there are designated areas (that aren't clearly marked) on the sides of the roads; however you have to flag your bus once you see it. Once the bus stops, what I have lovingly been calling "the fixer" hops of the bus and asks where you are headed to ensure you are getting on the right bus. Once on the bus and moving the fixer comes by to collect the fare. As you move along the route the fixer calls out the name of each stop to see if anyone is getting off. Suffice to say that this is a fairly efficient system and you can really get around anywhere on it. What's nice about having the fixer there is that you can ask them where you need to go to get to a destination not on his designated route and they will always point you in the right direction.
Salt was fairly quiet as was to be expected on a Friday afternoon. Not many shops were open and the town almost seemed abandoned. My initial reaction was that Salt reminded me of a small town in southern Italy. The way in which the houses were lined up on the hills, the grape vines and just the feel of the city in general was akin to cities I had been through along the Almafi coast - minus all the color. The city center was very cute and seems to have been recently restored and a new design implemented as all the store fronts were in the same style and the signs the same font. I remember when I was living in Ramallah, they were planning on doing something very similar in order to make the downtown more cohesive and attractive. In this case it really added to the charm of Salt.
We wandered around the stairs of the old city that took us further up the hills and in between old abandoned houses that were seemingly stacked on top of each other. We came across gigantic fig and olive trees and grape vines, and rooftops that had been converted into private patios. We continued further up still to the top of the hill where there was a Muslim cemetary and a mosque. We watched children enthusastically attempt to fly a kite from the roadside. While they were playing, the call to prayer began. As soon as we walked away they were successful and we saw their rainbow kite flying high over the hills of Salt.
Although the town seemed abandoned for the most part, when we did run into people we were greeted with "hellos" and "welcomes" and "what is your names." We were invited by 2 painters to join them for mansef. We were invited by shopkeepers to join them for Pepsi. We were invited by teenagers to join them for argileh. We were quite the spectical in Salt and drew a lot of bewildered stares and attempts at speaking English at which we always responded in Arabic.
At one point we started to ascend the second major hill in Salt. A car with 2 guys in it slows down and the passenger, a young guy maybe in his early 20s wearing a backwards baseball cap and a white t-shirt says to us, "Hello, how are you? Where are you from. I am from New Jersey" in full on Jersey accent. He then proceeds to ask us if we have been getting problems from any of the people and if we are being harassed. We say know and then he tells us that if we have any problems "up there" (as he points to the top of the hill) to tell them that we're friends with "Junior" and then he just drives off. Uh... can anyone say Jordanian mafia?
So about 5 or 10 minutes later we get "up there" and this shady looking guy kind of makes a b-line towards us and says something in Arabic like "are you friends with Junior?" We laugh and say yes and he proceeds to tell us that Junior sent him to make sure that nothing happens to us. He asks us if anyone was given us problems... we again say 'no'. As we continue along, our new friend goes with us. At some point we end up being surrounded by about a dozen little boys who were riding around on bikes and/or playing football on a lazy Friday afternoon. Although they were not bothering us, this guy decided they were and basically told them to bugger off - and boy did they listen. We ended up reaching a point where we couldn't go any further and had to turn back around and go back the same way we came. We reached the same exact spot that this guy had approached us and he stopped and turned the other way. No goodbyes, no nothing. Think what you will of this situation but we feel as we had a taste of proper Jordanian mafia (if such a thing exists).
After walking around for a little longer we grabbed some kanafeh and boarded the bus back to Amman, still grappling with what had just happened. We made our way back to Amman where we caught another bus to Baq'a, which is the largest Palestinian refugee camp in Jordan (with nearly 100,000 people). We had no intentions by going there other than to talk to people and see what their living situations were like. When we told the fixer on the bus where we were going he and a couple passengers asked what we wanted to see and do there. We had no answer. How do you explain to someone that you want to see their suffering first hand?
Once inside Baq'a we just walked. We got a lot of stares, but the only ones initially brave enough to talk to us were children. We were followed by a pack of boys - dirty clothes, infected eyes, snotty nosed boys. It was disheartening. They asked for money almost immediately. We had to say no. As we walked, I tried to teach them how to say "what is your name" in English. Sadly, at some point they started grabbing at my purse so I had to get mean. I told them "enough" and "go away" and they did. We continued walking. The houses are made of concrete.. makeshift and seemingly on the verge of collapse. The extremely narrow roads are made of dirt and lined with trash. At some point we came to an open area and a wedding party drove by. Vans and cars loaded with people clapping and celebrating... laughing and yelling. Life is good. At least for a moment.
We continue to walk and the sun is setting. We reach an intersection where we can just see the red sun and orange sky. It is beautiful. A half a block later we are greeted by a family that is sitting on the sidewalk outside of their house enjoying the cool night air. They ask us to sit down... we do. We meet Khaled. Khaled is a journalist for a major newspaper in Jordan. His father (who still smokes 2 packs of cigarettes a day) is 85 years old. He sits with his family balding and toothless with a cane made of olive wood and a twinkle in his eye. In our broken Arabic and their broken English we talk... about how life is hard in Baq'a... about family... about politics. We drink tea. We meet all the children and find it hard to know which one belongs to who. We learn that 25 people live in the house beside us.
At some point, we are invited to move down 2 houses and drink coffee. We meet more people and even more children. From a window without glass across the street several children are yelling "what is your name" and "hi" and "hello" to us. We are a spectacle again. I wave to them... they giggle. Mohammad leaves at some point and comes back with a watermelon. Khaled gets out the argileh. I join him. We joke. Mohammad tells me I am funny. It is now 10:00 and the last bus is at 11:00. We are invited to sleep there. We are invited for lunch the next day. We are invited to come back as much as we would like. Yousef gives us a ride home. We have officially made friends in Baq'a.
